Портрет художника в юности

           HetouchedStephentimidlyattheelbowandsaideagerly:

           —Doyoufeelhowprofoundthatisbecauseyouareapoet?

           —Cranlypointedhislongforefinger.

           —Lookathim!hesaidwithscorntotheothers.LookatIreland’shope!

           Theylaughedathiswordsandgesture.Templeturnedonhimbravely,saying:

           —Cranly,you’realwayssneeringatme.Icanseethat.ButIamasgoodasyouanyday.DoyouknowwhatIthinkaboutyounowascomparedwithmyself?

           —Mydearman,saidCranlyurbanely,youareincapable,doyouknow,absolutelyincapableofthinking.

           —Butdoyouknow,Templewenton,whatIthinkofyouandofmyselfcomparedtogether?

           —Outwithit,Temple!thestoutstudentcriedfromthesteps.Getitoutinbits!

           Templeturnedrightandleft,makingsuddenfeeblegesturesashespoke.

           —I’maballocks,hesaid,shakinghisheadindespair.IamandIknowIam.AndIadmititthatIam.

           Dixonpattedhimlightlyontheshoulderandsaidmildly:

           —Anditdoesyoueverycredit,Temple.

           —Buthe,Templesaid,pointingtoCranly,heisaballocks,too,likeme.Onlyhedoesn’tknowit.Andthat’stheonlydifferenceIsee.

           Aburstoflaughtercoveredhiswords.